


2YL

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Marijuana, Medicinal Drug Use, Messy, Not Beta Read, Permanent Injury, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: who needs painkillers when you can get high and have sloppy blowjobs instead.





	2YL

A bead of sweat is slowly making its way down Jack’s brow as he moves languidly in Brock’s lap, relaxed and content and taking his time, back arched just a touch and hands braced on Brock’s chest. There’s a trail of hickeys slowly blossoming along his collarbone and his hair is a mess, and he looks so good like that, all leisurely pace and a quiet confidence, taking his pleasure just the way he likes it, sweet like honey and slow like molasses.

For the most part, Brock is more than happy to let Jack do his thing, to ride him unhurried and steady, cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. They’re both tired these days, a permanent kind of tiredness that seeps deep inside the bones and refuses to leave, and there’s finally enough time to let themselves _indulge_. And the view from where Brock is laid out, nestled in a mess of blankets, isn’t half bad either.

Brock wants to stay like this forever, Jack writhing in his lap, completely unselfconscious, lips bitten and just a hint of a blush on the pale skin of his neck and chest. But he can’t help himself when Jack leans down, presses a wet, biting kiss to his neck and mutters _I’m close_ and _c’mon, fuck me_ and _give it to me, darling._ He grips Jack’s hips, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough for Jack to moan all pretty for him, and thrusts into that tight, wet heat.

For how quiet Jack usually is, he can be one vocal bastard when Brock touches him just right, all sighs and moans and grunts, and Brock swallows down every single one those noises when he pulls Jack down for a sloppy kiss, when he whispers _so good to me, Jackie_ and _c’mon, fuck yourself on my cock_ and _I love you,_ because after everything they’ve been through, he wants to say that as often as he can.

What Brock is not expecting is a sudden hiss of pain, Jack swatting at his hand to let go of his hip, pulling himself off Brock’s lap and rolling over to the side.

It happens sometimes, the past catching up, adding insult to injury. There’s days when the muscles in Brock’s back spasm and cramp, pain ebbing and flowing through hours stretched like infinity. There’s days when it rains and what remains of Jack’s fingers becomes twisted and gnarled like branches on an old tree, and equally fragile.

The worst of it is when Jack’s hip acts up, seemingly refusing to be held together by entirely too many pins and screws. It healed badly, result of a botched surgery, small town doctor held at gunpoint in a small town clinic somewhere on the way to Montana, Jack broken and Brock vicious. It was the last time Brock killed a man, and the one he regrets the least, like he never regrets the things he does for love.

Jack is laid out on his back, eyes closed, trying to even out his breathing, and Brock bends down to give him a quick kiss on the forehead and a mutter a quiet _I got you_ before reaching into the nightstand and retrieving his supplies.

Brock makes quick work of grinding but he struggles a bit with the roach, burnt off nerve endings not aiding his thick, clumsy fingers in the slightest, but eventually he gets it right. He’s getting better and better at rolling, trying to get the spliff the way Jack likes, half tobacco and half weed, nice and thin and with a peach wrapper, because he is all about little luxuries like that.

He passes the finished product to Jack, who carefully takes the joint between his fingers, examining it closely.

'That’s a pretty decent one’ Jack comments, pain still evident in his voice despite the steady tone.

'Least I can do since this is all, ya know, my fault. Being all fucked up in our old age. Ain’t how I pictured our retirement' Brock replies, still hung up on things he could have done different.

'I'm liking my retirement just fine. Now c'mon, help me with the lighter.’

Brock obliges, observes as Jack takes a deep drag, as he exhales a plume of sweet-smelling smoke. He takes a while just to breathe, to lie there with his eyes closed, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only comfort Brock can find in the whole situation. Ripples of smoke wind through the warm air of the loft, specks of dust glimmering in the late morning sunlight and Jack breathes in, breathes out, hands shaking just a touch. And maybe it's just wishful thinking but Brock believes he can see where the tense muscle in Jack's hip begins to relax, pain starting to melt and dissolve.

Brock can’t help but let his hands linger, fingers tracing the knotted scar along Jack's collarbone, the necklace of bite marks right beside it. Pockmark scars from shrapnel and bullets, red crescents of Brock's nails, a vicious slide of tactical knife from ribs to navel. Missing fingers, a mangled stump still long enough to hold a simple gold band. A blossoming hickey right at the jut of Jack’s bad hip.

He's interrupted when Jack taps him lightly on the shoulder, offering to share. With a small smile Brock declines, going back to studying the patchwork tapestry of every good and bad thing Jack's body has been through, most of it somehow circling back to Brock himself. His fingers make their way back up to Jack's face, tracing the old scar on his chin, and he can’t help but lean in when Jack takes another drag of his spliff, to kiss him right there and then, Jack blowing smoke between Brock's parted lips.

They stay like this for a while, exchanging second hand smoke, and eventually Brock pats Jack's hip, asking consent, makes his way to straddle Jack's lap when he is rewarded with a lazy smile and a tug on his hand. Once settled, Brock leans down to steal more kisses, slowly turning sloppy with too much spit, the bittersweet flavour of smoke intoxicating, making him crave more.

They move languidly against each other, Brock's lips detouring to the corners of Jack’s mouth, to his cheekbone, right beneath the empty eye socket. He leaves a wet trail down Jack's neck but feels too placid to bite. Instead, he returns to Jack's lips, indulges in the slow slide of tongue against tongue, in the sensation of spit-slick lips and the tinge of smoke still scraping the back of his throat.

Brock's fingers slide into Jack’s hair as he presses their lips together, greedy, insatiable. His nose bumps into Jack’s cheek and Jack huffs a quiet laugh as he takes another drag, slots their mouths together and breathes, Brock inhaling, focusing on the sensation of sweaty skin-on-skin and the way tendrils of smoke slide unhurriedly down his throat, the rough scratch of Jack's stubble and the refracted sunlight cutting through the haze surrounding them, muted and vibrant all at once.

Absent-mindedly, he shifts his hips forward, rolls them just enough for his cock to slide against Jack's, leftover lube easing the motion. They’re both soft, but it still feels good, lazy and content as Jack places a hand on the back of Brock’s neck, pulling him in for another kiss. Time runs in slow motion as Jack inhales, seals his mouth to Brock's and breathes out, warm and steady and tasting just a bit like peaches, and Brock loses himself in the sensations, rocks his hips against Jack's when he's sure that the sharp edge of pain has receded.

'C'mon, Jackie, lemme take care of you’ he whispers when he feels Jack getting hard, a hot and heavy weight against his thigh.

Brock clambers off Jack’s lap, graceless, unselfconscious, legs tangling in the mess of blankets piled on the mattress. He settles between Jack’s spread legs, runs his fingers through the fuzz on his thighs, presses fleeting kisses to Jack’s stomach, overwhelmed by the sensations. There’s too much to focus on, scars and freckles and skin shivering beneath his touch, and Brock can’t help but sneak a bite at the single dark mole right below Jack’s navel, to leave a mark there as he gets distracted.

A hand in his hair guides him back to his task, not pushing or demanding, just softly urging him on. Brock can’t stop himself from leaning into the touch, silently asking for fingers to run through his hair, to scratch at the nape of his neck, lavishing the attention. He nuzzles against the sharp angle of Jack’s hipbone, happy to stay where he is just for a while longer, knowing that finally they’ve got all the time in the world.

Eventually, a gentle tug on his hair and a twitch of Jack’s cock against his cheek help him regain his focus. Unhurriedly, he drags his tongue along the underside of Jack’s length, wraps his lips around the tip, lazy rather than teasing. There’s a breathy gasp and the fingers in his hair tighten just a touch, and Brock swirls his tongue, tastes precum and clean sweat, gives a content hum as he continues his gentle ministrations.

Slowly, his mouth slides lower, easy and relaxed, fingers wrapping where he can’t reach without further irritating his smoke-rough throat. Jack is _big,_ and Brock enjoys the steady pressure on his spit-slick lips, the continuous sensation grounding him in the present. He pulls off just to dribble a string of saliva onto Jack’s cock, to make the slide of his fingers smoother. He starts a leisurely pace, trying his best to move his hand in time with his mouth.

Jack is all smooth skin and a salty, bitter taste on his tongue, making him drool. Spit escapes past his lips and collects on his chin, getting caught in his stubble, strings of saliva dragging with the slow slide of his wet mouth along Jack’s length. Brock knows he’s being sloppy, messy even, but he doesn’t care, utterly unbothered by the resulting noises. Saliva eases his way deeper, and soon fingers are replaced with his mouth, nose pressed into the wiry curls at the base of Jack’s dick.

Jack’s hips hitch a little and Brock relaxes his throat, lets Jack fuck his mouth. He chokes a little, but it doesn’t hurt, Jack’s pace languid. Brock moans and slurps around Jack’s cock, mouth pliant and mind hazy, happy to please. Steady fingers in Brock’s hair keep him in place without pulling him down, and he feels grounded, safe against the onslaught of sensation.

It doesn’t take long for Jack to come, and Brock swallows him down, licks him clean before pulling his mouth off Jack’s dick with a wet _pop_ , mouth warm and wet and messy. A thick string of saliva and come falls from his reddened lips and catches on overgrown stubble, but he doesn’t care, dragging at it with the back of his hand only to smear it further.

Sated and wrung out, Brock settles against Jack's side. He tilts his head upwards with a lazy smile just for Jack to take his chin in one hand and wipe away at the mess there, thumb pressing on Brock’s bottom lip, pushing droplets of come back into his mouth. Brock lets Jack's fingers push in deeper, tongue darting out to lick and savour, content to receive a chaste peck on the forehead for his efforts.

Eventually, Brock feels Jack’s hand begin to make its way to his half-hard cock, but he already feels like he is drifting away, sheets soft beneath him and air warm and heady, Jack’s solid bulk a comforting weight against him. Face pressed into Jack’s chest, he mumbles a _‘m good, Jackie_ and _tired_ and _love you,_ ready to doze off in the early afternoon sunlight, the steady thrum of Jack’s heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> have a listen to the front bottoms - 2YL.
> 
> i've got no excuse for this at all.


End file.
